


Imperfect Brother

by soullessbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Gore, Bottom Dean, Dark, First Time, Horror, M/M, Murder, Painplay, Shotgunning, Top Sam, Underage Sex, Violence, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1808998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullessbrothers/pseuds/soullessbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean comes back to the motel later than he promised to find a body on the floor and Sam holding a gun. Monster shot, the human kind, Sam loses himself and wants Dean down with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfect Brother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Addie_D_123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Addie_D_123/gifts).



> For [prettymouthngreenmyeyes](http://prettymouthngreenmyeyes.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Mentions of attempted child abuse. Set in the canon 'verse, this is a dark story. Please read the tags for warnings.
> 
> Sam is fourteen and Dean is nineteen.

_I never asked you to be perfect—did I?—_  
 _Though often I’ve called you sweet, in the invasion_  
 _Of mastering love. I never prayed that you_  
 _Might stand, unsoiled, angelic and inhuman,_  
 _Pointing the way toward Sainthood like a sign-post._

_You dream long liturgies of our devotion._  
 _Yet, in my heart, I dread our love’s destruction._  
 _But, should you grow to hate me, I would ask_  
 _No mercy of your mood: I’d have you stand_  
 _And look me in the eyes, and laugh, and smite me._

_Then I should know, at least, that truth endured,_  
 _Though love had died of wounds. And you could leave me_  
 _Unvanquished in my atmosphere of devils._

                                                                        From _The Imperfect Lover _—_ Siegfried Sassoon_

 

 

There’s a shot. Light cracks through the window and Dean runs. One-thirty and he had sworn to be back by twelve. More light carves onto the pavement, not the orange of a streetlamp glow, but the dim yellow that bleeds from motel bulbs. The door is open and it triangles out. Sam is in there. Sam is in there. Alone.

Dean had left the gun behind. He yanks a knife from inside his leather jacket and squeezes white knuckles around the hilt. Palm hot, the rest of him is cold. He should creep in, a blade nothing to a bullet, but he kicks the door. The handle bangs the wall, thumps an echo through plasterboard. Blood. There’s so much blood. He watches cheap carpet drink it in, darken the weave.

“Sam?”

Red stains his pyjamas. The muzzle shakes in Sam’s hand. He stares at the body, that electric-dance fall, splayed out limbs. It’s too soon for a stench. All blood. Sam hit his throat, caught in the spine. The insides are deep enough to be purple. They shine and the fountain slows.

“Sam.”

Knife lowered, Dean can’t catch Sam’s gaze. Gun pointed, finger curled over the trigger, he drops the mouth six inches down to change the angle.

“Hey. Sam. I’m here. It’s gonna be okay, Sammy. You just gotta tell me what happened and—”

Dean jolts. Another flash screws his eyes. More blood spatters out and works into the pattern underneath. The man is dead, dead at the first shot. The second has hit his groin.

Sam looks up. He blinks fast and his jaw trembles. The gun doesn’t move. Dean thinks that Sam might be afraid. When he turns his head, Dean spots pink. It’s stark, a handprint over Sam’s cheek with indents to his neck. The pyjama shirt sags, pulled hard.

“He was gonna hurt me,” he whispers.

 

 

The diner is empty. Five-fifty-four and patrons stretch from early workers to truck drivers. They pause with places to be. A homeless man sits in a booth by himself and cradles coffee run cold to stay warm inside, the change gleaned from pennies dropped on the sidewalk. Dean watches him. That full beard reminds him of the stubble imprinted with its own blood. It had streaked up and covered the other man’s jaw. His gaze is thick and ignored. This man hunches further into his seat and won’t look up. He thinks that if he stays low, he can be forgotten, the rags that cover him a camouflage against faux-leather white and blue.

Sam’s plate is untouched. He hasn’t picked up his fork and the pancakes are cold. Dean had added the syrup that he likes, but it runs over cooked batter and swims on the plate. He’s hunched, too, eyes on the moat and shoulders bent forward.

They haven’t spoken. Sam hadn’t moved. Transfixed, he had stayed between the gap of their beds, impassive when Dean had prised the gun from his hand. The barrel was still warm. It lay on the bed and Sam stood as Dean took care of him. The body first. They expected John later that morning. Monster dead in Wyoming, he’d sworn to be back by three. Dean believes him. Lucky in the black dead, he had yanked the body up and forced limp arm around his shoulder. He held it up like he had held John up after a heavy night. Loud words, laughter faked, Dean had feigned a sway, uncertainty in his step in front of the motel.

Blood is shadow in the darkness.

Out of sight and in a dumpster. Dean had braved the wide scent of decay, forgotten food from spilled trash bags. Rats had climbed in to claim peelings. Hands covered in food gore and soiled diapers, worse, he had pulled garbage up and forced the bastard down.

They would be gone before it was emptied.

He didn’t see Sam when he cleaned. There are old tricks and he had followed them. The motel that had been home for a week, two, had all of his supplies. Cold water in the sink, a heady squeeze of dishwashing detergent. There was no sponge, so Dean found an old cloth. He had swirled it around, twisted it out and blotted over the stains. _Never rub,_ he heard his father say, _it’ll smear. You wanna take the stain out, son, not make it look like you cleaned up. Cops love clues like that._ So he remembered. From hands to knees to sink and back again, the cloth soaked up the blood and turned the water brown-pink. Gone, the blood became wet patches and Dean had taken a towel and stamped it dry. The carpet stood, thicker underfoot and with the show of a drunk that Dean had taken home, the management should presume vomit and a worried, clean guest.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean had murmured. “Gotta do you, too.”

Sam had nodded. He hadn’t moved until Dean took his arm and lead him into the bathroom, shivered only when Dean pulled the clothes from his skin. Bruises threatened to colour his forearms, thick fingerprints of the dead. Dean growled. Then, Sam had flinched, but Dean had a job to do. The shower had only reached warm and they stood under it together. Sam first. Dean had taken the shampoo and soothed his hair, bent and arched around to rough-scrub his skin. It hid the slap and the grab. Himself next and Sam closed his eyes, concentrated on the water. Dean lowered his head and guided Sam’s hands to lather in the soap. It dislodged gunpowder from underneath his nails.

Neither could sleep. They didn’t try. Dean had dressed himself, dressed Sam and locked the door behind them. Sweet for shock. Pancakes and chocolate milkshake. He has eaten his own, hasn’t tasted it, because he knows it’s what he’s supposed to do. The waitress has cleared his plate and now he watches the homeless because he can’t hear Sam’s fork.

“Sam,” he says, “eat.”

 

 

“I liked it.”

Sam hasn’t spoken. John had picked them up at two and cleared out with the motel keys left on the table, a tip for the service that the boys hadn’t received. Dean excused Sam to say that he was sick, ate too fast and John had grunted, reminded him to say if he was going to hurl so they could stop the car. It’s another motel now, four hundred miles from the last and John takes one queen. He’s spread out, boots off after he had first snored because Dean had unlaced them himself.

“What?”

They lie together in the other bed. The pyjamas and Dean’s clothes from the night before are clean but damp at the bottom of a bag. He can wash them again later. Sam is in another pair and Dean is in boxers, pressed up behind him with the blankets up to their shoulders. One arm is flat to the bed with Sam’s neck on top and the other curled around his waist, palm over his stomach. Sam is short enough still for Dean to bend his knees up until they’re one body with two hearts.

“What’d you mean?”

Sam keeps quiet. His breathing slows. Dean pushed his hand into Sam’s middle to force him further back. He wants to crawl into his skin and untangle the knot in Sam’s chest, smooth the kink and stitch him back together. He can’t, so he watches the back of Sam’s head sleep.

The night is long.

 

 

Dean doesn’t talk about feelings. Four days into John’s next hunt and he plays solitaire with a dirty pack of cards. This motel has a TV that gets three stations and infomercials that cut in and out of the day. Early mornings mean cartoons. Sam sits crosslegged on one bed, a bowl of cereal in his lap. He’s old enough to train and hold a gun, old enough to fight the weaker monsters, old enough not to spill. Dean ignores _Tom and Jerry_ music, crashes of trumpets and xylophone runs every time an iron or mallet crushes the cat.

“Couldn’t let him hurt me, Dean,” Sam murmurs. “You’d get mad.”

He forgets the nine in his hand and turns to face him. Sam watches the screen and Tom glares at the camera.

“I know.”

“He deserved it.”

“Yeah, Sammy. Yeah, he did.”

Sam shuts up and Dean looks back at his game. There’s a space for a red, not a black, but he puts it down anyway. The cartoon is over and Porky stutters his wave.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“He wouldn’t have felt the, the second one, right?”

“No, Sammy. He was dead, dude.”

“Too bad.”

 

 

It happens again in South Dakota. John has paid for a trailer to keep Sam and Dean close on a hunt for a _Winyan Nupa_ , Sharp-Elbow. He gives Sam the research and Dean translates. Pen at his journal, fifth of whiskey in a rented glass, John frowns at the third of Sam’s mumbles.

“Something you boys wanna tell me?”

Dean shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“Sammy, you’re quiet.”

“He’s tired, Dad.”

“I was speaking to Sam.”

“Dad, he’s reading. He’s fine.”

John cuts a stare at Dean. “You mind your mouth. I’m not stupid, son. Something happen when I was away?”

He’s met with silence. Sam tightens his grip on a battered book stolen from a library and Dean keeps his hands on his knees. John wipes a hand down his face and pours another shot.

“If you don’t tell me, I’m at a disadvantage.”

“Dad—”

“Dean, you listen to me. You stop telling me things and I can’t help you. I can’t protect you. ”

“It’s not like you’re ever here,” Sam snaps.

John starts, but Sam is defiant.

“Dean stitches you up. You can’t exactly protect yourself, so how are we supposed to trust you? What are you gonna do, Dad? You kill a monster and there’s, like, a million more. Why should we tell you anything? We can handle ourselves. It’s the only thing you’ve ever taught us and we can do it. We don’t need you. If we did, you’d be here, but you’re not. So stop asking.”

Dean rears back and John slams the glass down on the table. His fingers bite hard into the sides, yellow to red. There’s a growl that catches his throat, but he looks down. Swallows it. There’s a job to do.

“I need that damn research.”

“If you show it it’s second face it can’t move,” Sam glares.

“Good.”

It’s the most that Dean hears from Sam. He watches him sweep up the books to take to the other side of the trailer. There isn’t a bedroom for privacy, so he shores in a corner and pulls a blanket around him.

“Sam—”

John grunts. “Leave him. Got no time for teenage bullshit.”

They plan John’s strategy together. Dean can’t break his gaze from dark eyes far away.

 

 

“I dream about it.”

“What?”

“That. The guy. I dream about it.”

“It’s a nightmare, Sammy. Ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Sam twists around on the spring-worn mattress to face him. Chest to chest, he looks up. Dean changes position to keep both arms around him.

“Not, not like that. It’s not a nightmare.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Sometimes I dream it’s Dad.”

Dean sighs. “Sammy, he deserved it. He was gonna hurt you.”

“Dad wasn’t gonna hurt me.”

“No. The guy. That asshole.”

He presses his nose into Dean’s collarbone, hands flat over bare back.

“I know he did.”

“I know he’s, was human, but sometimes they’re monsters. Bad as the real ones. Worse. Hell, you ain’t stupid, Sam. You read the papers.”

“I know.”

“So think about it like some other freaking monster. It was gonna hurt, maybe hurt someone else before. You just ganked it.”

“It felt good,” Sam murmurs. “I wanna do it again.”

Dean grins. He reaches up to ruffle Sam’s hair. “Gonna make a hunter outta you yet, kiddo.”

He doesn’t answer.

 

 

John’s gone in the morning. He leaves evidence behind. Another bottle, money on the table. A note. There doesn’t need to be numbers because Dean memorised them when he was five, back when John trained him to use a payphone. He’s an adult now, two years shy of legal. John hadn’t asked if Dean wanted to come along and Dean’s glad. He can’t leave Sam.

“Wanna practice shooting?”

Sam rolls his eyes but doesn’t complain. They dress and walk from the trailer park to the wilderness nearby. Dean has an ID that says twenty-two, a firearms licence and a gun that looks crafted for deer, rabbit, hare. In a space between trees, Dean drags a fallen branch. Sam doesn’t help so Dean does complain, loud, rough, enough to make Sam smile. Parks have enough trash, so a short scout finds four cans and Dean lines them up.

“You first.”

It’s a short exercise. Sam’s a natural, has been since he was first allowed to hold a pistol. He hesitates when Dean hands it over, but the pat at his shoulder and Dean at his flank has him stilled. One, two, three, four. Fast enough to keep his posture and slow enough for smoke to breeze. He hits every target almost central and Dean whistles.

“Not bad.”

“Better than you.”

“Oh, really, huh?”

“Yeah. Really.”

Dean lines them up a second time, bent and cracked, holes through the metal. He strides to Sam’s position and moves his shoulders around their joints, lets his head rock from one side to the other to make the bones pop.

“You know you look stupid when you do that, right?”

“I could do that in a goddamn clown ballerina costume and still not be as stupid-looking as you, Sammy.”

It’s worth the scowl. Too much confidence and Dean presses the trigger too fast, misses one target.

“You were saying?”

“They’re bent,” he says, “’cos your stupid shots got ’em first. Mine’s harder’n yours.”

“Whatever you say, Dean.”

Dean’s elbow juts out to knock against him and Sam knocks right back. They turn into shoves, one each, another, gun dropped in the dirt and wide hands at each other’s arms, shoulders, chests. Dean has more power. He pushes hard enough for Sam to lose his feet and stumble. Hands lock around Dean’s wrists and they both fall, Sam underneath.

He hisses. “Get off me, you jerk.”

“You’re the one being a little bitch, Sammy.”

“I mean it. Move.”

“Make me.”

“You’re such a child, Dean!”

“Says the kid with a lucky shot.”

It enough to make Sam mad. He thrashes underneath him, all growing legs and skinny arms. The bones underneath are sharp with lost baby fat. Dean curses and Sam fights. The heel of his hand at Sam’s chin, Sam turns his head and nips teeth. He might sink in, but Dean yanks back and knees. Off momentum carries him back, another push and Sam’s on top. He takes a fistful of Dean’s hair and wrenches forward, crashes back, hard enough to daze. Dean groans. There’s a scrabble of fingers in the dust, Sam straddled above him, and he has to blink fast to keep the world still.

“You’re an—”

The gun. Sam has it in his hands. Muzzle at Dean’s chin.

“Sam?”

He thumbs to check the safety’s off, both forefingers on the trigger. Dean swallows. His chest puffs in, out, wider with every breath. Sam’s eyes narrow. He shifts his fingers again, makes them comfortable.

“Put the gun down, Sam.”

“I said get off me.”

“And I’m off you. Put the gun down.”

Dean’s voice is measured. His arms are free, but Sam’s grip is too sure to grab safely. Instead, he moves them to the sides, palms up. It’s the best way to calm an animal. Pressed back to the ground, he lies prone. Sam squeezes his thighs around him and the side of his mouth twitches.

“It’s me. Sam, it’s okay, it’s me.”

There’s a rustle, snapped twigs and Sam half-spins his hips to shoot at the sound. Bang. Loud. A choke. Spell broken, Dean shoves Sam off and he topples. On his feet, Dean runs toward the noise and almost trips over loafers. It’s an old man, cane in his hand, bullet in his ribs. He tries to scream, beg for help, but his lungs spew blood, not air. Arthritic hands arch weak, one at his throat, the other to Dean.

“We should kill him.”

Dean jumps. “Jesus, Sammy, run and get someone, call a fucking ambulance!”

“He looks like he’s suffocating.”

He stands beside Dean and frowns, the gun lowered, at his hip. Dean wants to bolt, should bolt. An innocent is in danger. Sam pulls him to stay, fixes him to the ground as he stares. Each choke is wet. They bubble red froth over the man’s lips and draw lines of spit-blood from the corners, down his chin. His eyes pop wide. His legs kick, right weaker than the left. A shoe catches the soil and it comes off, caught only by toes.

“Fuck, we gotta—”

“He’s probably suffering or something,” Sam says.

“I fucking know that, so move your ass and—”

“It’s probably really, really bad.”

Sam crouches by the man’s side. It takes longer than the movies. Careful, he lays the gun just behind himself in the leaves and reaches out. The man tries to grab his hand, the movement slurred with more wet noises. Sam holds it for a second and Dean thinks he might try to comfort him, but then he bats it away to get to the wound. Bullet burns are crossed out with blood and Sam imagines that fabric and skin have melted together. He takes a finger and presses the edge, moves in, prods the centre. The man lets out a damp howl of pain, dampened down, shushed by a collapsed lung and part-splintered rib.

“I think he’s drowning.”

“What?”

“So get this. You know how lungs move oxygen around the body? Alveoli take in the air and the lungs move them, make sure you breathe out carbon dioxide, right?”

“And?”

“You break the lung and blood pours right in. Like, instead of air, it’s blood. If you’re in water, it’s water.”

“What the Hell’s—?”

“He’s drowning. But with blood, not water, like I said. Drowning on land.”

The man’s arm turns limp. There are a few last bubbles, aborted coughs and splutters and he’s gone. Dean scrapes his nails back through his hair.

“Think the bullet’s still in him?”

Dean might drown on land, too, when Sam presses two fingers into the hole in the man’s chest. He flexes the knuckles to spread it wider and tickles exposed flesh.

“Sam, fuck, Sammy, stop it!”

He looks up. “Why?”

“Because you fucking killed a guy, Sam!”

“I killed a guy before.”

“That was different. He was gonna hurt you. This guy, Jesus, he ain’t done a goddamn thing!”

“How’d you know that?”

“What?”

“How’d you know he hasn’t done anything?”

Dean growls. “You really wanna have some kinda debate about right and wrong now?”

“Think about it, Dean. He was coming right for us.”

“It’s a forest. He was walking.”

“I saw him look at me.”

“You didn’t even know he was there!”

“Earlier. When you went to clean the black tank and I waited outside. He was staring at me.”

“Sam—”

“What if he came here to try something? There’s other kids here, Dean. He, he might have already, might have—”

“Jesus.”

“I couldn’t, not, not after—”

“You’re fucking crazy, Sam. You know what’s gonna happen? Dad ain’t due back here for days. You’re gonna get the fucking cops here and they’re gonna—”

“They won’t.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You won’t let them.”

 

 

It’s dark. Dean buries the body and Sam watches. It’s a hard dig, more than a grave. Sam says that if they lie him flat, there’s more of a trace, so Dean carves three feet wide and six feet down. He can brace his boots on either side of the hole to climb back out, covered in that underground mud and sweat-damp soil. He pushes the body in and covers it up.

“Wait.”

“What now? You got someone else I gotta put down there?”

Sam tenses. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out chicken bones. They’re greasy with a little meat and muscle still attached.

“You wanna explain why you got freaking bones in your pocket, Dr Lecter?”

“For the dogs.”

“What dogs?”

“You put them on top of one layer and if police dogs sniff this out, the cops have to dig, right?”

“Then they find the body. Good job.”

“Not after they find the chicken. They’ll think the dogs were distracted and stop looking there.”

“You realise how fucking creepy you sound, right?”

“You’re the one dumping a corpse, Dean.”

“For you.”

Sam smiles. Dean takes the carcass and drops it on the top. A little thought and he rubs the layer of soil with it. The chicken is fresh. Dirt clings to it. He snaps a few of the thin bones and spreads them out before he covers the last couple of feet. The man had sagged into the pit, body curled in on itself. There’s enough space.

On firmer ground, Dean pants. He drops the shovel and Sam hugs his middle. He nuzzles his face into Dean’s shoulder and Dean can’t push him away. He thinks of that man, the first, and those bruises. When he hugs back, it’s tight.

 

 

Shovel stored, bodies clean, they crawl into bed. There’s a space between them. Dean is on the outside, Sam against the wall that spares them from the cold. The blanket they share is taut. Cool air snakes into the gap until they both shiver.

“You think I’m a monster.”

It hangs. Dean sucks a breath. “I don’t.”

“I killed two people.”

“You had to kill him.”

“That, that man. Today.”

“It was an accident.”

“Happy accident.”

“Sam.”

“What?”

“Don’t say that.”

“I tried to tell you before. I. I think I’m sick, Dean.”

“You ain’t sick.”

“I thought about, about how, how someone else would—”

“You’re scared. I know you, Sam. You roll that ’round in that melon’a yours until you do crazy stuff with it.”

“I’m not scared. I wanna do it again.”

Dean thinks about that whisper after the first time. _I liked it._ The revenge, he had thought. That burst of right when a monster drops to nothing. The second time, Sam had looked interested. Curious. He spouted facts he’d gleaned from school and reading, repetition back like John had asked for research.

“I’m gonna get some air.”

Sam has no time to protest before Dean climbs off the mattress. He pulls a t-shirt over his head and picks up a light bag. Outside, he walks to the cool, official park fire pit. There’s a log and he crouches, knees the height of his chest. Off peak-season, early hours, it’s Dean and his fears for company.

He hasn’t had to indulge since before he went to Sonny’s, but he keeps a pack aside, tied up in his oldest underwear. They’re a pair of briefs, too small now. Inside there’s a packet of cigarettes, six out of ten smoked, and a disposable lighter. Dean takes one from the box and holds the filter between his lips. Hands cupped to stop the breeze, he flicks the lighter until the flame catches and sparks the cigarette tip orange.

One drag is enough to make him groan. He slips both lighter and box back into the bag, tied up, zipped away. He’ll stink of it when he’s done, but he doesn’t care. His head drops, elbow on his thigh so he can rub his forehead. Each drag is a balm. After a long break, the smoke fills his lungs hot and makes his fingers colder. It burns, a good burn, and he thinks of the unnamed man that he’s left in a hole.

The man Sam shot.

The man Sam killed.

“Dean?”

“Jesus, Sam, go back to bed.”

“You’re smoking.”

“And you’re awake. Scram.”

Sam perches beside him. Dean gauges. He inhales again as Sam watches and blows it into his face. He coughs.

“What the Hell was that for?”

“Bed.”

Sam waves the smoke away. “I wanna talk to you.”

“In the morning.”

“Please.”

Dean thinks. He should stub out the end, but he doesn’t. He stares back at the empty pit instead and imagines flames.

“You. You hate me.”

He turns. Frowns. “What?”

“I’m. I’m a freak. I. I hurt, I mean. I did that, those things and now, now you—”

“I don’t hate you, Sam. Jesus Christ. I’d never hate you. Why the Hell would you think that?”

Sam whispers. “I killed two people. And I liked doing it. How can you not hate me?”

“You’re my brother,” Dean counters. “How could I?”

They sit like that. Dean finishes his cigarette and they should go back, but his legs won’t move. Shock, Dean thinks, and he wants to laugh. His only warmth is Sam at his side, pressed close. He needs to clear his head. His throat will ache in the morning, but he wants nicotine clarity. Back in the bag, he takes the second cigarette of the night and lights it.

Sam breaks the silence. “Does that help?”

“Does what help?”

“Smoking?”

“Not really.”

“So why’d you do it? I thought you quit.”

He shrugs.

“Can I try?”

“You’re fourteen.”

“And I’ve killed people. I wanna smoke.”

It’s ridiculous enough for Dean to shake his head and snort. “C’mere.”

“I am here.”

“You can have it second hand,” he says. “Open your mouth. Not that wide, fuck.”

Dean takes it slow. He breathes enough for his chest to fill out and holds it. Sam frowns, unsure until Dean holds his chin. Their lips touch, enough for Sam’s eyes to snap wide, before Dean starts to exhale. It hangs between them, escaping cloud. Wisps sneak into Sam’s mouth and he coughs.

“You gotta breathe in. It ain’t hard.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“Thought you’d figure that part out, genius.”

“Do it again.”

It’s less crazy the second time. Dean takes a drag and turns to face Sam properly. When he crosses the smaller space, their mouths press together and it might be harder than the first, extra pressure at the breathe-out. It works. Sam sucks it in and has the sense to be as slow as Dean lets it go. They stay together as he exhales, toxic air caught over both tongues. It joins them.

Dean moves to pull away, but Sam’s hand finds his wrist. He takes in smoke from the source, wraps his lips around enough to damp the end and locks them back together. He forgets to breathe for a second then gives it, has Dean suck in his lungs instead. They part and the smoke dances away.

“Sam—”

There’s no pretence. Sam kisses with his eyes closed and Dean’s open. Dean freezes. It’s Sam who kisses again, lips just parted, over and over again until his teeth catch Dean’s bottom lip. Dean groans. Small, it gives Sam the confidence to curl his fingers deeper into Dean’s wrist. He kisses harder, more sure and Dean, he kisses back.

They sit and share kiss after kiss until the cigarette is forgotten, a line of ash held together until the wind picks and scatters it wide. Their mouths part further and it’s Sam again who dares to lick, trace the edge of his tongue over Dean’s lip. No resistance and he pushes further, has that first taste of Dean. It’s all slow, too gentle as tongue meets tongue and Dean drops the last of the cigarette at their feet. His hand smooths up and over Sam’s back, his neck, the side of his face while they lick inside each other.

Breathless, Sam breaks it first. “You hate me now?”

He doesn’t have to think. “No.”

 

 

Dean had reasoned that he was drunk with shock, cigarettes, murder, but Sam had kissed him goodnight and now kisses him good morning. There’s peace. When they lie in bed, sunlight they ignore hits the curtain and they face each other. They’re all hands. For their violence, they’re gentle. The kisses move from mouths to jaws, necks to shoulders, and Sam latches onto Dean’s nipple. Dean cradles him there, soft boy lips nursing at nubbed skin. He licks after the kisses, draws a circle around and focusses on the peak. It doesn’t matter that he ignores the left in favour of the right. Sam experiments with it. He grazes his teeth and grins at Dean’s hiss. Careful sucks, then harder when Dean moans. When he’s finished, he stays attached and suckles, feels younger than his years in Dean’s wire-strong arms.

They’ve broken one rule that cracks the others. Dean had writhed under Sam’s attention and his cock sticks through the gap in his boxers. More kisses. He lies and takes it when he should stop that inquisitive mouth when it layers across his skin and finds the head. It’s wet, damp at the tip with tiny pulses, hard thanks to Sam’s touches, thanks to Sam. Sam grins. He keeps his eyes on Dean when his tongue brushes over the end. He finds the slit too quickly and buries himself, like he could lick Dean inside out. He’s all tongue. Dean makes an aborted stroke through Sam’s hair to encourage him to wait, but Sam opens his mouth properly and lets an inch settle inside.

It takes every prayer not to thrust.

Sam virgin teases. He doesn’t think to draw it out. He wants to devour every inch. A cigarette and a secret coats their joined blood in more than shared beds and motels, a layer of oil in their veins that crosses over brothers. The boxers are in the way, but Sam doesn’t take them off. He works around them like he works around every rule. His hand slips inside to free Dean’s balls and he presses his nose against the sac to breathe that morning sweat, a scent entirely Dean. He licks them, too, scratches his tongue over coarse hair and sucks carefully to roll one into his mouth. It’s a struggle to fit both, a squeeze that Dean barely finds comfortable, but the vibration from Sam’s pleased moan shudders to Dean’s gut.

The worst is lower. Too hard, not hard enough and Sam pushes Dean’s legs apart. The boxers are old, fabric stretched too far, so he tugs one leg up and to the side. Dean’s exposed.

“Sam, you’re fucking killing me here—”

“I just wanna see what it’s like.”

It sounds young and Dean feels another wet pulse of his cock. Sam’s breath is hot against his ass, hotter still when the fabric’s just out the way and Sam takes a cheek in each hand to prise open. He clenches, but Sam takes it as invitation. His nose draws a line up, nuzzles in before his lips find their mark.

The first lick makes Dean jump. It’s alien, wet, soft as the licks to his nipple. Sam tries again after he firms his tongue. It’s exploration when he curves it over Dean’s rim and traces over every tiny crease. He searches over it, the tip of his tongue first. He dips to tease inside and changes, flattens out to lick wide and cover more. Over, again, one of the licks is hard and fast enough to sweep from ass up, right behind Dean’s balls. Sam leaves his ass for a moment to concentrate on that strip of bare skin and scrapes teeth, a nip, another, until he tongues back down and tenses in earnest. The outside slick with spit, Sam pulls his ass further apart. Nose flush to Dean’s skin, his tongue turns into a cock. It thrusts at Dean’s hole, twists until it starts to ease him wider. Little by little, the muscle relaxes and Dean arches up.

“God, Dean.”

Sam rests his cheek against Dean’s spread thigh and touches his crease. Tongue wet, the tip of his finger pushes inside. It’s strange, another alien, but Sam eases it in and out. When Dean’s ass starts to dry, Sam spits onto his finger and presses it inside, gets himself further in. More curiosity. A second finger starts a burn, but it’s Sam. Dean can take it.

He doesn’t ask because Dean always gives. Sam sheds his pyjamas and crawls between Dean’s legs. More spit over his dick and he has to concentrate to line up. There’s nothing but themselves, no cheap chemicals to line the way.

“Sam, we gotta—”

“Please. Please, Dean. Just let me, okay? Just let me.”

Blunt head at his ass, Dean remembers the fingers, remembers anal he’s tried before. He pushes out when Sam pushes in, a rough friction that crackles his nerves. The fire bleeds out and he thinks, hysterical, that he’s glad Sam’s still a kid, the hair’s still almost soft and his cock isn’t wide enough to ruin inside.

Sam gasps. It’s sharp at the edge, a higher pitch, when he feels how tight Dean is around him. No lube, old army style, the first thrusts are aches for Dean and the threat of ripped cock for Sam.

It gets easier.

The more he moves, the more Sam’s dick leaks inside. It isn’t much, but his thinner shaft and patient, tense rocks spread it out inside. He screws his eyes tight and Dean’s vision spots. The angle’s wrong, this first time on his back, but that’s Sam inside him, his murderous baby brother leaking the first hints of come up his ass and his own cock stays hard. Every time Sam moves, it bumps against Dean’s middle. He can’t take it. Dean wraps his hand around and pumps his fist dry, lets his own leak spread the way.

“I need, please Dean, I need—”

“C’mon,” Dean hisses, “gotta fill me up, gotta fuck me, Sammy, fucking me like a fucking girl, c’mon. C’mon.”

It’s enough to rend a cry from Sam’s throat and a spill from his cock. Dean follows him, strokes hard and rough to the slick warmth, the sensation of Sam softening inside him. He spatters his hand, his stomach and he shakes with it, harder than being buried inside any girl.

They stay like that until Sam’s arms threaten to buckle. He pulls out and lies on top, between Dean’s legs. Dean holds him there, spreads his come between them as he feels Sam’s trickle from his ass and dampen the sheet below.

 

 

It’s better, on the road. Sam’s last outburst against John forgotten, he kicks the back of Dean’s seat when they drive and John’s scolds are half-hearted. Old fights simmer until they cool and Sam reads, fills homework sheets and babbles perfect lore. John’s proud, gives Dean extra smiles in gratitude and when he leaves for new hunts, Sam hugs him every time. They’re happy. Content. The Yellow-Eyed Demon may be out of reach, their hurts caught up in its trail and Sam may bicker when it comes to a fresh change of school, but it works.

The end of the school year brings a new Sam. His smiles start to fade and his touches harsh. John comments that Dean shouldn’t pick fights when he sees fresh bruises, and takes him to one side to remind him that bites across his neck aren’t professional. He doesn’t know that they’re from Sam, a rougher Sam who had tried lube once and hated it, the Sam that spit-slicks the way and likes to hear Dean scream.

Dean likes it, too. That little brother with the softest smile bares his teeth and breaks the skin. They keep to kisses when John stays, but alone, Sam’s cock is wrought iron and his come magma. The most frustrated days, Sam has Dean on his front, ass up to tear inside, no fingers. When he’s done, when Dean bleeds and stings with the mix of cuts and come, Sam laps him closed. His tongue eases where his cock splits, a second brother to the pain he’s caused.

They’re on the sofa and Sam straddles Dean’s shoulders. Sac on Dean’s lips, he grinds down, drags his balls over Dean’s insistent licks.

“Wanna see you bleed,” he pants.

“Yeah. Gonna. Gonna fuck me raw, Sammy? Gonna see me squirm?”

“With the knife. Mark you up. Need it.”

Dean stops. “You wanna cut me?”

Sam doesn’t. He rocks his hips again and growls down. A fist in Dean’s hair, his shifts and bends to force his cock into Dean’s mouth. It’s almost big enough to gag on when it hits the back of his throat. Sam bucks. He tightens his hold until Dean yelps around his dick and uses his mouth as a hole to screw. A few thrusts and it’s over, thick wads of come right at the back of Dean’s throat. He doesn’t pull back, lets it settle alongside his cock and the excess escapes from Dean’s lips.

Sam chokes. “It hurts. I need, there’s, I keep thinking and it’s like a, a, it hurts and I dunno—”

They both shudder when Sam stumbles back onto the couch. Arms tied around himself, he pulls his knees up, more feral than sated. Dean coughs and swallows. He wipes his mouth with his knuckles and sits up. His own erection flags.

“Sammy?”

“It’s. They looked good. I really liked it and I can’t. I can’t.”

“Talk to me. C’mon.”

Dean’s chest pounds. He believes in justice and accidents, the fear of that one night alone and a predator twisted. He doesn’t want likes and needs, an obsession in blood. His own is enough, should be enough. He doesn’t ask questions, not when he knows he can’t bear the answer, not when it threatens that shine he sees in Sam.

“I thought you were happy, man. You’ve been better, c’mon. Is this, we making you sick?” He hesitates. “I let you do all this shit, let you screw me and, fuck, Sammy, I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s not you,” Sam snaps. “It’s me. I see them. In my head. How they looked. I did that.”

Guilt bites Dean when he feels relief. “You can talk to someone. Figure this shit out. We’ll use fake names, I’ll hustle more, do something, okay?”

“You don’t get it!”

“Then tell me!”

“You wanna know, Dean? You wanna see what’s in my head?”

“I’m asking, ain’t I?”

“I want it! I wanna see them go! I wanna see that second when everything just stops and they’ve got their blood everywhere and trying to scream, like that guy!”

Dean pales. “Sam—”

“No, Dean! We kill monsters and we don’t have a choice. They’re, they’re monsters. But these people? They’re like, they’re mine. I can, I can watch it when they go and that’s my decision.”

Sam sits up and lets his feet touch the floor. He stares at the wall and Dean looks to see what Sam can see. It’s empty, yellowed wallpaper. Stained.

“That second guy. I tried to, to think about why it felt good to kill him. I mean, maybe, maybe I’d seen him and I thought, but I dreamed it, dream it, over and over again until it’s this big, big thing.”

“It’s not, Sam. It was a fucking accident and—”

“It is! It is a big thing! He didn’t suffer enough. There wasn’t enough blood and he didn’t scream and I think, what if I used the knife instead, okay? Maybe, maybe I coulda cut him open and heard more, or seen more, and that hole? It wasn’t big enough. Wasn’t wide enough.”

“You know how fucking crazy you sound right now?”

“Me?” Sam glowers. “You wanna talk about crazy, Dean? You’re the one letting me screw you. I’m fourteen. I’m your brother. I’m fourteen and your brother and you lie there and take it. I know how much better it felt for you when you opened yourself up and used that, that grease or, or whatever, but I said I didn’t like it and you. Still. Take. It.”

Dean tenses.

“I come back from school and if I say I wanna do you, you lay down. I say I wanna feel you lick me, you open your mouth. You’re a whore and when I hit you or hurt you, you ask if I liked it, if I’m okay. Isn’t that crazy? Aren’t you crazy?”

“That’s different. That’s not hurting anybody!”

“Really? Because you scream.” Sam laughs and it’s cracked in the middle. “God, Dean. You just don’t get it. Don’t you get mad? Don’t you wanna hurt somebody?”

“Sure I get mad, and yeah, okay, but—”

“We can. You get it now? Nobody knows who we are. Nobody can find us. How’s it different taking, like, one person when Dad saves dozens from monsters? What’s one person?”

“It’s already two people,” Dean growls.

“And? I’m gonna do it, Dean. I need to. It’s, it’s too hard not to. I’m in school and can see that stupid teacher with her stupid easy essays and that stupid skirt she wears on Fridays and I wanna see her choke on it.”

“Loadsa kids wanna hurt their teachers, but it ain’t gonna happen!”

“Yeah, it can. I’m not asking for help, Dean, because I’m gonna do it. I have to. I don’t have a choice.”

“You do. You always have a fucking choice!”

“After one, maybe,” Sam says. Quieter. “Not two.”

 

 

It happens that Friday, one floral pattern too many. Dean waits for Sam after school. There’s a club he likes, debate, but it runs an extra hour and Dean has to move. The other kids file out. No Sam. Dean waits another ten minutes, twenty. His stomach rolls. It’s a small school, barely five hundred, no cameras and a shared parking lot with the public, but Dean sneaks in anyway. The main doors are locked. Leaders of extra activities must take the keys, he thinks, so he follows to the side doors were the kids strolled free. He tries the handle. It’s jammed. A shoulder to the wood, but the pane shakes.

It takes another fifteen for Dean to find a window. Small, he bends his fingers into the gap and tugs it up. Old paint chips under his nails. He slides in, struggles. It’s a bathroom, no urinals.

“Awesome.”

Dean is careful to pull the window back to the position he had found it. That door isn’t locked. He opens it, slow, and listens for the sound of vacuums. The cleaners must be finished.

He strains for a sound, talking, moving, but it’s silent. On his way around the building, Sam could have slipped out and might think that Dean’s forgotten the day. He curses. It’s light enough to walk without his flashlight, evening dull but not dim. He picks his way along a hallway and peers into the classrooms. Each room the same as the last. Chairs line to desks. Work on the walls differ. Dean passes lockers. Most have stickers or name tags, the odd one with words carved past green and into silver.

One door is open. Dean creeps towards it and hears the first noise. It’s a hum. Quiet, it could be late air conditioning, but there’s a tune he can’t place. Some of the notes are off. Against the wall, he stays flat. Closer, the hum is louder. His stomach clenches.

There’s a scream.

Dean runs to it, boots slick over the polished floor and he slides when he rushes into the classroom. There’s a woman, that teacher, with a bloodied hand over her face, huddled in the corner beside the blackboard, caught between upturned trash and a low bookcase. Sam is over her. He stands and blocks her in, blade in his right hand.

“Sam!”

“She sounds good, right, Dean?”

“Help me!”

Sam doesn’t flinch. His smile is bright, easy, shoulders lighter than they’ve been in weeks. Dean eases in. One foot after the other, he watches Sam turn his knife over. He twists it until blood rolls sideways, points up and drops run to the hilt.

“Okay. Okay, Sammy. She’s hurt now. See? She screamed. You think you wanna go home now?”

“Please,” she begs, “please.”

He frowns. “She’s still here.”

“Yeah, kiddo, I know. But you gotta let her go.”

“I thought we could try something.”

“Sure. Sure. Whatever you want.”

“You think blood’s good for, you know, lube?”

Dean balks. “What?”

“I was. I was thinking. We could do that. I could do you here and use her blood so it’s better for you, like you said.”

Dean fights bile. Sam steps forward and presses the tip of the blade to her chin. She hisses. A spot of red leaks and Sam presses harder, drags the knife down to a new scream.

“Sam, stop! Think about this, think about what you’re doing!”

“I have,” Sam says. “I think about it a lot. I think I’m gonna make her take her skirt off and cut it up. And then I’m gonna make a big hole and stuff it inside her, since she likes it that much.”

“No. Sam. I can’t let you do this.”

He looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “What you gonna do, Dean? You gonna call the cops? Let them take me away? Or Dad? Dad’ll kill me if he has to. Or are you gonna do it?”

Dean can’t answer. Sam in jail. Sam salted, burned. It makes him more sick than the woman Sam has on her knees.

Gentler, Sam says, “You could help.”

“Sam—”

“You’ve got your knife, right? I mean, I’m gonna kill her anyway. So, if you help, it won’t take as long. It’ll be fun. Please, Dean? Please?”

He doesn’t move. Sam should be innocent, the little boy with his plastic airplane in the back of the Impala, the teenager that swapped it for textbooks and summer reading. It’s soft, his question, and he could ask for the last bowl of cereal or another few minutes in the bath. It hurts. The Sam he knows shouldn’t want this. The hunter that Dean is should kill him now. He can’t move.

Disappointment aches over Sam’s face.

He turns back to the woman.

“Guess we’re gonna play and my brother’s gonna watch.”

He’s too arrogant. She breathes too fast, every muscle tense. Sam leans in, smiles, and she yanks a book from the shelf beside them, throws it at his chest. The spine connects. Only her face cut, she scrambles to her feet. Her heels skitter. Sam’s off-balance for a moment, not hurt, surprised, and he snarls, slashes out, but she pushes her hand on the wall to jump away. Adrenaline pounds fast enough to make her quick and the desks keep Sam’s jabs in air instead of skin.

“Dean!”

It’s reflex. She escapes, the cops, Sam gone, Dean alone, Dean’s failed. He doesn’t think and darts, own knife out of his belt and it plunges forward, straight into her gut. She doesn’t scream this time. Her hands shake. She looks down and Dean’s still attached, jaw set with metal deep. He can feel her pulse warm out, see the terror curl her mouth. Dean pulls the knife free and she moans, a deep sound. She takes a step back, another. It’s weak.

“H-help,” she whispers.

On the next move, her legs buckle. Down, knees crack the floor. Sam moves behind her. He swallows. Dean’s the one that freezes. Lips parted, he pants. There’s betrayal in her eyes for saviour turned demon.

“You can do it.”

It sounds like the first time Sam tied his laces. He’d cried, so innocent, set himself to fail. Dean had taken those fingers in his hands and kept his patience. When he’d teased, Sam’s tears fell harder, so he’d said his sorries and worked him through. Over and over, they practiced the loops and ties until Sam could do them on his own. John had been pleased. Sam had learned and Dean learned how to teach. They’d both been little boys.

Sam is just supposed to learn.

He’s not supposed to say it.

He takes his knife and drags a red line in her shoulder, through her blouse. Dean is impotent. He can’t look away from her face or block out every fresh cry when Sam leaves another mark. Again, the other shoulder. Her hands press against her wound and she bends in, over herself. She tries to stop the blood, claws to stitch the skin together, but her back is a slate for Sam to carve. He cuts deeper and she slumps forward. Hand on her middle, she uses the other to brace herself. Each breath is loud, harsh.

“Enough,” Dean says, hoarse. “Just. Just do it.”

“Yeah? You want me to?”

“Yes! Yeah, Sam. Just. Finish it. Kill her.”

Sam smiles and cuts her throat.

He carves from left to right, pushed up against her back and it spurts, sprays, hits Dean’s boots and the cuffs of his jeans. He can feel it, imagines heat through his socks, her last cling to his skin. Sam grabs her hair with his free hand and angles it back. The wound gapes. Her mouth can’t close.

She doesn’t drown on land, but it’s close.

 

 

That’s how it stays. Sam is happy. He works harder in school and after they hide the body, he can work with the substitute. In the paper, there’s a note for the disappearance of a beloved teacher, but no one has any information. The police ask Sam and the rest of the debate team if they had seen anything suspicious, but a lifetime of taught lies keeps fake tears on his cheeks. There’s no leads.

They move on to the next town, the next hunt. Dean recognises the signs. Sam’s mood drags the ground. When they fuck, it hurts. Dean tries the knife and lets Sam slice. It’s good. He has Sam’s cock inside him and every hurt salves his guilt, but it’s not enough. Sam has to be careful with him. After he comes, he laps at the blood and rubs antiseptic into the wounds. The frustration bites. Dean kisses, loves him more, wants to understand.

“You can’t bleed like they can.”

 

 

John’s asleep. Sam worms from Dean’s arms and stands. He’s quiet, takes the clothes he had worn before bed and slips them on. Dean’s awake. He watches Sam through the grey dark. Hoodie next, sneakers. A blade from their duffle. Sam grabs the motel door key from the table. He pats himself down, hides the weapon, nods and Dean thinks he might mouth the list that he’s taken.

“Sam?”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Don’t.”

“I need it.”

Dean climbs out and yanks up his jeans. He can see Sam’s frown. Dressed, his boots laced, he takes a breath. There’s another blade under the pillow. His hand sweeps to take it and he slots it in his belt.

“Dean?”

“You go out there,” Dean growls, “you might get hurt. I can’t let you do that, Sam. Don’t ask me.”

They go. Door shut behind them, Sam shoves his hands into his pockets and glances at Dean every third step. Dean knows what they’re doing. He tries not to notice Sam gauge girls out of clubs. They walk for half an hour, longer. Further into town the skirts hitch higher and the men sway wider. Garbage shifts into an alley, a man with cardboard blankets who braces drunk-heavy laughs. Dean’s heart thrums.

Sam stops sometimes. He eyes a girl separated, cell at her ear. She calls a cab and it’s too loud. Her heels are in her hand, bare feet on the sidewalk. Dean pushes him on. His feet ache. They need to be back before John wakes. Whiskey dreams don’t last forever.

“He yours?”

Dean starts. “Excuse me?”

“The kid. He yours?”

It’s a drunk. He leans on corrugated metal. It covers a door, the bar behind it closed, other patrons gone. One shirt tail sticks out and the fly to his trousers is half caught. Sam and Dean have stopped and they can smell hot piss on the step. There’s a streetlamp, but it stops outside the doorway. Liquid looks black in orange light and it edges from the corner, bleeds under the man’s shoes.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

“Don’t think he has,” the man smirks. “Think he needs more.”

Dean pushes Sam behind him and bristles. “What’d you say?”

“I said, I bet he’s a real little screamer.”

“You shut your goddamn mouth.”

He rakes over Sam. Leers. “You want me to show you who your daddy is, baby? I’ll stick it in real—”

The words die. Dean stalks over and smashes his fist into the man’s face. There’s no fight. He crumples back against the wall and Dean strikes again. Knuckle hits bone. Crunches. His nose slams to the side at another punch and he shrieks. Alcohol burns out as the pain burns in. Vodka slowed arms wave to push Dean away, but Dean won’t stop. His knee connects groin and the man howls. He slumps into his own puddle. A fresh stream damps his trousers and the concrete below.

“Dean!”

He can’t hear Sam. Wood prods his arm. Dean swipes at it, doesn’t recognise Sam. Bloodied fingers from that popped nose cling to the knife and Dean gouges neck. Arched down, he hammers metal against collarbone. It grazes bone. Again. Another slice. The man’s on the ground. Dean grabs his shirt with his free hand and he uses the wall to brace him.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!”

Dean roars. Lower, the blade thrusts into gut and he twists it. He lets go, turns his wrist, grabs again, a wind for weapon-key. Blood pours from the man’s mouth. He slaps at Dean’s chest and shoulders, claws blunt nails at his face. Dean’s had worse. He snaps another wound through flesh to puncture a kidney, as deep as he can force.

“Dean. God, Dean.”

More. Blood coats Dean’s hands, forearms, chest. He jams the knife into more flesh. Pants every time more skin falls apart.

“Dean!”

Sam’s hand is on his arm and it stills. Dean shakes. His jaw trembles.

“He’s dead, Dean. You did it. God, you did it.”

“Did—?”

Sam wraps his fingers over Dean’s knuckles and pulls the knife free. Blood spurts from that freshest of wounds. Hands entwined, he stands in front of Dean, between him and the corpse. He arches up onto his toes so he can kiss Dean’s chin. He holds Dean’s neck to tug him down. Mouth to mouth, Dean is stone as Sam’s tongue snakes inside. He feels a weak grind until it roughens. Sam ruts against his hip and groans.

Dean pushes him back. “Fuck. Fuck.”

Veins electric cold, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s sticky. More blood is half-dry and clings to him. Sam’s excited. He takes the weapon from Dean’s hand and crouches down. Feet on either side of piss-lines, he pushes the knife between the man’s lips. It rests for a moment while Sam considers before he yanks his arm to the right. Metal catches the join of skin and breaks through, extra blood-rush at a wider smile. A grimace is left behind and the cheek sags. Sam does it again, this time to the left. He’s so close that the next cut spatters his face, sharp tip at the space under the man’s right eye. Sam doesn’t free it. He draws a straight line to join his sculpted wince and stands back to take it in.

“What’d you think?”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. Sam looks at him and he can see a painting. Four years younger, Sam had held out a page smudged with charcoal. His hair had lost its gloss where he’d frowned in the school art room and demanded his perfection. Other boys would have asked for pride where Sam had complained at the wrong lines, dark fingerprints that had ruined the fruit bowl. It’s different. They’re different.

He wonders if he should throw up. Sam’s cheeks blaze with death, a quick-dry scarlet to bronze. Dean licks his thumb. It leaves copper on his tongue. He ignores it and wipes a mark on Sam’s jaw. It smears out. Sam smiles. Dean’s fingers spread out to cup his face. They pull together and kiss again. Dangerous, other night walkers could find them, see the blood under that false light.

They walk home in gore and shower together. John hasn’t moved, won’t, and they kiss until they dream.

 

 

“You can feel it.”

Dean turns to the next story. Unemployment’s on the rise.

“I can tell.”

The inside of Dean’s lip is worried enough that he knows every bump of wet between his teeth. His chair rocks. Two legs to four and back again. It’s a constant tap and hits a spot in his skull he doesn’t know how to scratch.

“Dean.”

“Shut up.”

Sam moves along the sofa and swings his legs to the floor. Dean doesn’t need to see the pat to feel it. Newspaper left, he moves and sits beside him. Sam moves, too. He climbs to his knees to lean against Dean’s side.

“You saved me,” he says. “You killed him for me.”

“Sam.”

“It felt good, right?”

“Don’t.”

“I know you dream about it.”

“I don’t.”

“You feel it.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about.”

Sam’s mouth is at his ear. He nips the lobe, sucks it into his mouth and nurses. Hands find Dean’s chest, one at the front, the other at his back. Sam’s knees part to grind into Dean’s ribs.

“You wanna feel it again. Like me. We could do it, Dean. We could go out and do it together, like that guy. You believe he screamed like that? That’s the loudest ever.”

Dean doesn’t want to hear it. He groans. He wants to stop the buzz.

“Bet we could make it louder. Bet we could. Bet we could get two and play. There’s a warehouse—”

“No—”

“—And it’s been, like, left for years. Empty. Find people that want us both and take them there—”

“—Shit—”

“—And they’d deserve it ’cos they’ll want us, and we’re ours, just you and me, right?”

Dean swallows. Sam holds his chin and they kiss. Tongues together, Dean gives in. Breaks up. Sam lets go to find Dean’s wrist instead. He pulls it toward him, leaves it between his legs. Dean does the work. He massages through jeans. Sam’s hard through denim. The material’s thick enough for Dean to press the heel of his palm against him. Sam rocks into it.

“You see, now, yeah? You feel it?”

That hiss. The echo of _think he needs more_ and earlier, so much earlier, _he was gonna hurt me_. Sam’s bounced moods. Easy muscles at the death of light. It’s not the same as monsters.

“You’re right.”

Sam might not hear him. His chest braces Dean’s shoulder so he can twist his head, all to bite the curve of Dean’s neck. Hard. Dean bucks. Suction bruise spreads and he can feel it burn up through his flesh.

“It’s different. People. People are different.”

He wrestles Sam’s button and fly. Inside, it’s too hot. Dean grasps through his underwear to jack Sam’s cock. Dry friction makes him hiss, mirrored at Sam’s second bite.

“We gotta, fuck, we gotta kill monsters. Always gotta kill monsters.”

Sam palms under Dean’s shirt. It rides up. A thumb scuffs his nipple. Pinches. Twists.

“Can’t, can’t make them pay. Make them hurt.”

“Yeah, Dean. Touch me.”

Dean curls to pull underwear down with Sam’s jeans. The waistband falls, stops at the bend of his knees. Pink, exposed, his hold is firm. Sam fucks into that circle. Slow at first, Dean can feel his balls tighten.

“Sammy. Jesus, Sammy.”

“Gonna fuck you,” Sam swears. “Make you hurt.”

“Then them. Them, too.”

“Please. Please. Like that. Knew you’d, God, Dean, knew you’d help. Big brother,” he pants, “tonight?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> For [prettymouthngreenmyeyes](http://prettymouthngreenmyeyes.tumblr.com)' prompt:
> 
> "A dark Weecest AU where the Dean and Sam don’t just kill evil, they kill for fun. I really love the idea of their “brothers against the world” kind of perspective. Sam is the more sadistic of the two, and Dean just thinks he’s that much more adorable for it. The bloodier and more horrific the better. If you could include knifeplay, painplay and smoking kink, that would be great!"
> 
> I hope you like it, sweetheart!
> 
> You can find my Tumblr [here](http://soullessbrothers.tumblr.com)!


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